


Skin

by dance_across



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Docking, Fluff, Frottage, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Yuuri, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Sharing Clothes, Yuuri Probably Needs To Work On His Interview Skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: “I basically told her I fantasized aboutwearing your skin,” says Yuuri. “Isn’t that—I mean—I mean, aren’t there literal horror movie monsters that do that?”Victor looks thoughtful. “I guess I just didn’t read it that way.”





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I have neither explanations nor excuses. I do, however, have a large amount of gratitude for [airspaniel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel), wonderful beta and wonderfuller human.

“Ha! Finally!”

The exclamation is sudden enough, and loud enough, that Yuuri nearly spills his tea.

“What?” he asks.

Victor, an expression of fierce vindication sharpening his features, pokes at his phone. “Someone noticed.” He looks up, and Yuuri gives him an emphatically blank look. So he explains, “You. Wearing my costume for ‘Eros.’ Someone finally noticed.”

A shiver tightens Yuuri’s ribs. It hasn’t even been a full year since he first tried on Victor’s old black-and-silver costume, the one that’s been repurposed for his “Eros” program. Sometimes, when he actually stops to think about it, Yuuri honestly can’t believe it’s _his_ now.

Still, he can’t help pointing out: “People have been noticing all season. Remember that woman who stopped me at the Cup of China? And there were those two girls in Barcelona, too…”

“Mm,” says Victor—a little rumble of a noise that makes Yuuri’s toes curl. “But have there been _articles_ about it before?”

Yuuri thinks. He’s pretty sure there haven’t been articles. “Is there one now?”

And he honestly doesn’t know the answer. He isn’t allowed to look at his own press. It’s one of the few things that Victor, as his coach, has been absolutely adamant about—and one of the very few of Victor’s rules that Yuuri has never broken.

Victor waggles his eyebrows. “There _is_. Look at these handsome devils.” He leans across the table, holding his phone out so Yuuri can see. Sure enough, at the top of the page are two images side by side: Yuuri in the “Eros” costume last week at Japanese nationals, and Victor in the exact same costume, more than a decade ago.

The photo on the left features a Yuuri who’s mid-jump. His face is red with exertion, scrunched up in concentration, and glimmering with sweat. On the right, Victor’s face looks serene and perfect. Does Victor ever _not_ look perfect? Honestly, even when he’s acting like a complete idiot, which is frequently the case, he is infuriatingly attractive.

Not that Yuuri is complaining. But still.

He peers at the headline. “‘Katsuki points to Nikiforov as the reason he started skating,’” he reads aloud. Well, that’s nothing new. It’s not like Yuuri’s ever made a secret of his admiration for Victor. But then he sees the smaller picture. A young and familiar white woman, smiling—and beside the picture, her byline. Yuuri stares. His heart picks up its pace. “Oh no,” he says.

“What?” Victor asks, immediately concerned.

“Nothing,” Yuuri says. “Just, I remember her. She interviewed me after my free program at Nationals. She was, um. She… Maybe you shouldn’t read that one.”

As soon as the words are out, of course, he realizes they were the actual worst thing he could have said. Victor snatches his phone back and begins to read, his beautiful face focused intently on the screen. He looks like he’s ready to go to war on Yuuri’s behalf. Little does he know.

“‘Off the ice, Katsuki has a fascinatingly hot-and-cold personality,’” Victor reads, as he uses his finger to scroll. “‘One moment he is shy and reserved. The next moment, he’s confiding in me as though I’ve just become his new best friend.’” Victor looks up; amusement tugs at his lips. “ _Confiding_ , Yuuri? I’m intrigued!”

Yuuri puts his elbows on the table and hides his face in his hands.

“‘The origin of Katsuki’s free program,’” Victor murmurs, still scrolling. “Sure, sure. ‘Spectacularly flattering costume,’ yes, you’re welcome for _that_. Step sequence… quad flip… ah, hmm. ‘I asked Katsuki about his decision to wear one of his coach’s famous costumes in his short program, and—’”

“You said I’m not supposed to read any of this stuff!” Yuuri protests, fingertips still pressed against his eyes.

“I’m reading it _to_ you, and that is not the same thing,” says Victor. “Here. Aww. She quoted you. ‘Katsuki said that the original decision happened by chance, a coincidence of time constraints and the fact that Nikiforov happened to have a selection of his own past costumes available. But when I asked about his decision to _continue_ wearing it instead of commissioning a new one, he said…”

Victor trails off into silence.

Over on the couch, Makkachin lets out a snuffle that probably means he’s still asleep. Yuuri feels an absurd surge of gratitude that the poor dog isn’t awake to hear this.

Because, the thing is, Yuuri is going to die. From the look Victor is probably giving him right now, or from sheer embarrassment, he doesn’t know which one. It doesn’t matter. Either way, he is not going to survive this conversation.

A moment passes.

“Yuuri?” says Victor.

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri says.

“Look at me?” Victor’s voice is quiet. Tentative, almost.

Yuuri can’t. He absolutely can’t. But somehow, he does. He lowers his hands, just enough that he can peer over his fingertips at Victor, who is watching him with an unreadable expression on his perfect, perfect face.

Victor’s eyes flick down to his screen again. He reads slowly and carefully. “‘But when I asked about his decision to _continue_ wearing it instead of commissioning a new one, he said that finding a new costume hadn’t even occurred to him. He told me that the costume had become an integral part not only of his program, but also of his relationship with his then-new coach, five-time world champion Victor Nikiforov. Implying that the two had not yet become romantically involved at the time, Katsuki said that wearing the costume felt like wearing a piece of Nikiforov himself—like living for three minutes inside of his coach’s skin.’”

“Oh god,” whispers Yuuri.

“There’s more,” says Victor. “‘It felt, Katsuki said, like a fantasy come to life.’”

“I said you shouldn’t read it,” says Yuuri plaintively. “I _told_ you.”

“Yuuri—”

“She was _friendly_ ,” Yuuri interrupts, maybe a little too loudly. “She cornered me right after my free skate score was announced, and I was still caught up in the… everything… and she kept asking me about you, and I missed you, and I couldn’t shut up, and…”

“I know,” Victor says softly. “I missed you, too.”

Yuuri clamps down on the urge to argue that he’d missed Victor _more_. At least Victor had gone through Russian nationals with his coach by his side. Yuuri hadn’t, thanks to Japanese nationals happening during the same long, horrible week. They’d both taken gold, but that isn’t the point.

And there’s no need to rehash what the point actually is—especially not with Victor’s eyes still on that woman’s article.

Yuuri takes a deep breath, hoping it will steady him. It doesn’t. He still feels like he’s about three seconds away from crying. Still, he knows what he has to say.

“I’m sorry.” Victor’s eyebrows shoot up, and Yuuri continues: “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s too much, and I should’ve rehearsed something in case anyone asked, because that was just plain creepy, and—”

“Wait. Creepy?” Victor looks genuinely worried now. “I thought it was sweet.”

“How is that sweet?” Yuuri says.

“How is it creepy?” Victor asks.

“How is it _not_ creepy?” Yuuri says. “I basically told her I fantasized about _wearing your skin_. Isn’t that—I mean—I mean, aren’t there literal horror movie monsters that do that?”

Victor blinks. “Oh. Huh.”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri miserably.

“I guess I just didn’t read it that way,” Victor adds, tapping idly at his bottom lip, looking thoughtful.

“What other way could you possibly read it?”

Victor slits his eyes at Yuuri. A smile blooms on his face, wide and suggestive and—

“Ohhh,” says Yuuri, suddenly sort of breathless. Not that he wasn’t breathless before, but this is… this is different. Less of an impending panic attack situation, more of an impending erection situation. It’s a sharp turn for his brain to make, and he feels dizzy from it.

“If you must know,” Victor says, putting his phone face-down on the table, “my interpretation was that you’d been fantasizing about doing exactly what we did last night.”

Yuuri can’t reply. His voice is caught somewhere between his heart and his lungs. Last night. Yes. After two long weeks of being back in Japan without Victor—of competing in nationals, of packing his things and shipping them here, of saying yet another indefinite goodbye to his family and friends—he’d finally landed in St. Petersburg last night. Victor had picked him up at the airport, bundled him into a car, escorted him up to the apartment they’d be sharing for the foreseeable future, and…

And Victor is standing up now, and coming around the table toward Yuuri. He squats beside Yuuri’s chair, and he looks up with those piercingly blue eyes, and only then does he add, “Do you have any idea how amazing it was to finally feel you inside me?”

Victor’s hand is on his thigh now. Victor’s voice is low. And that’s not at _all_ what Yuuri meant when he gave that interview last week, but his blood still stirs.

“It was, um… it was pretty amazing for me, too.”

A laughable understatement. Nothing in Yuuri’s life can compare to the memory of Victor beneath him, legs spread wide, welcoming him in. He can still see each time Victor’s eyes fluttered shut; he can still hear each time Victor’s breath hitched. He can still feel the shape of Victor’s mouth, whispering _Yuuri, Yuuri_ against his skin. Nothing can compare. Nothing will ever compare.

But then Victor, who is _evil_ , has to go and say, “I wonder if she was picturing us having sex when she wrote that.”

“W-what?” Yuuri sputters.

“I bet she was,” Victor says, his eyes deceptively innocent as he holds Yuuri’s gaze. “Her phrasing seemed deliberately sensual to me.”

“Deliberately…?”

“I could be imagining it, of course,” Victor says. “You’re more fluent in English than I am. What do you think?”

“She wouldn’t,” Yuuri says. “She’s a professional.”

“So?” says Victor, bouncing to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. “I’m a professional, too, and I picture us having sex all the time.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying, if she was being _deliberately sensual_ , then she also deliberately misheard me. I wasn’t talking about sex.”

Victor grins down at Yuuri. “So you’re saying you _meant_ the skin thing in a creepy way?”

“I—”

Yuuri cuts himself off, glaring at Victor. But only because it’s physically impossible for him to glare at him _self_. Honestly, is Yuuri _trying_ to be the world’s worst fiancé? Here’s Victor, trying to give him an easy out, and he’s stupidly refusing to take it.

He is so bad at being in a relationship. He is _so bad at it_.

“Um,” he says. Which does not make anything better. “Um, I meant… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I was just trying to say that, um, I like wearing something you’ve worn before me, but it just… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Victor wraps his hands around Yuuri’s biceps and pulls him to standing, making his chair screech awkwardly across the hardwood floor. Not that Yuuri cares about the floor. How could he possibly, when Victor’s eyes are so, so blue and looking _right at him_?

“Yuuri, why are you sorry?” Victor’s voice is warm and low; it trickles down through Yuuri’s body, pooling in his belly like liquid fire. “Don’t you know how it makes _me_ feel to see you wearing my costume?”

They haven’t talked about it. Oh, he’s caught the looks Victor has given him, the appreciative once-overs, the smirks, all the rest. But he’s never _said_ anything before now.

Mustering all the courage he usually reserves for the ice, Yuuri lifts his chin and somehow manages to say, “No. But I think you should tell me.”

Victor moves closer, pressing his body against Yuuri’s. There is no space between them. Victor is hard; Yuuri can feel it against his hip.

He seeks Victor’s lips with his own, and it’s the beginning of last night, all over again. Victor’s hands are all over him, holding him close, and Yuuri’s hands are diving beneath the fabric of Victor’s sweatpants, seeking his cock, feeling it thicken in his grip.

 _Mine_ , he thinks, suddenly overwhelmed with want. With _need._

Yuuri steers them toward the nearest wall, and presses Victor up against it. Then he sinks to his knees, pulling Victor’s sweatpants down as he goes. Victor is not wearing underwear.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, high-pitched and needy, and grabs a fistful of Yuuri’s hair. He is panting, audibly, visibly, and there is pink in his porcelain-pale cheeks.

“I need to,” Yuuri explains. And then he fits his mouth around Victor’s cock.

Victor tastes of salt and sweat and desire. He is delicate and velvety; he is hard and leaking into Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri pulls back so he can press the flat of his tongue to the soft head, so he can lick into the slit and feel Victor throb against him. He kisses his way down the shaft, then licks his way back up again. He suckles at Victor’s foreskin, which is far longer than his own and a _lot_ of fun to play with—and that’s when Victor takes hold of his head and pulls him off.

Before Yuuri can ask what he’s done wrong, Victor is kneeling too. Kneeling and kissing him again, and looking at him like… like…

“I want to try something,” Victor whispers into Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri’s answer is yes. Yuuri’s answer is always, has always been, and will always be yes, if it’s Victor doing the asking. He kisses Victor one more time, hoping the meaning will translate.

Victor reaches for Yuuri’s shorts. The same ones he slept in last night. The waist is elastic, and so is the waist of the underwear beneath them, so it doesn’t take much effort for Victor to pull both garments down. They pool around Yuuri’s knees, and normally he’d kick them all the way off, but before he can consider it, Victor’s hand is wrapping around his cock.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, suddenly awash in the feeling of Victor’s hand on him. “Oh…”

“Good?” Victor says, as he begins to stroke.

Yuuri’s belly is roiling with sensation. Sparks are flying throughout his body, in every possible direction. He presses his face into Victor’s neck. He can’t keep track of what his hips are doing, and he can’t keep his eyes open. He isn’t going to last. Not with Victor’s hand moving over him, slow and sure like that, not with Victor’s thumbnail teasing his slit, not with—

Victor stops.

“No, no,” Yuuri whines against Victor’s neck. “I’m close, keep going, keep going.”

“I told you,” Victor says, one of his hands rubbing small circles on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I want to try something.”

That’s when Yuuri feels a new kind of touch on the head of his cock. A light brush. Something soft and wet. Then it happens again. He lifts his head and looks down.

“See?” Victor says softly. “Look at us. Look.”

Yuuri looks. And promptly forgets how to breathe.

Victor’s right hand is still resting on Yuuri’s shoulder. Victor’s left hand is holding his cock. Not stroking so much as… guiding. Guiding his own cockhead toward Yuuri’s. And this time, Yuuri gets to _watch_ as they brush together, just like a moment ago, soft and wet and perfect.

Yuuri takes his own cock in his hand, and he begins following Victor’s lead. Their cocks bump and brush and slide against each other, and it’s… strange. And strangely mesmerizing. Victor leans forward, touching his forehead to Yuuri’s.

“Look at us,” he says again.

Yuuri keeps looking. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

“This is what you wanted to try?” he asks quietly.

Victor hesitates. “This is part of it.” His cockhead slides along Yuuri’s underside, sending a shiver straight up Yuuri’s spine. “Tell me if you don’t like it. I’ll stop.”

“I do like it,” Yuuri says.

“No, I mean the next part,” says Victor, and sits up straight again. “Hold yourself still.”

So Yuuri does. He holds himself still as a statue. A very obscene statue.

Victor looks down at Yuuri’s cock, then up at his face. He seems _nervous_ , which is a little weird. Victor doesn’t usually seem nervous about sex-related things. Or maybe Yuuri just hasn’t been able to see it through his own nervousness. This time, though…

“Okay,” says Victor, and takes himself in both hands. He presses the very tip of his cock against the very tip of Yuuri’s—but this time, instead of sliding it to the side or underneath, he holds it there. And he begins to play with his foreskin.

No, _play_ is the wrong word. Yuuri’s seen Victor touch himself before. He knows Victor’s patterns and rhythms, and this is something different. Victor draws his foreskin up around the head of his cock, the way it would naturally be if he were soft—and then he keeps going. Using both hands now, he stretches his own skin further than Yuuri’s ever seen it go: over not just his own cockhead, but over Yuuri’s, too. Soon, they are both fully enveloped, inside Victor’s skin, and inside Victor’s hand.

Yuuri can feel them sliding together, tiny slips of skin against skin, creating spark after spark of sensation. He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ it.

“Victor,” Yuuri whispers. “This is… what are you…”

Victor looks up at him, almost shy.

“You wanted to wear my skin,” he says simply. “And I want you to have everything that I can possibly give you.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. It’s so strange, and so perfect. Just like Victor himself.

“Will you come inside me?” Victor asks.

The very thought sends a coil of lust hurtling through Yuuri’s body. But somehow, what comes out of his mouth is, “Is there _room_?”

Victor laughs. “Let’s find out! Go on, touch yourself. For me, Yuuri.”

“Only if you let me finish sucking you off afterwards.”

“Twist my arm,” says Victor, with a laugh. “Here, I’ll hold us in place.”

True to his word, Victor uses two fingers to keep Yuuri’s borrowed sheath from sliding free—and Yuuri begins to stroke himself. His head nuzzles against Victor’s, over and over, and it isn’t long before he’s close again, and leaking into the hot, wet space that Victor has created for them.

“Yes,” Victor murmurs. “Yes, god, yes, Yuuri…”

It’s the sight, combined with the sound of Victor’s voice, that finally pushes Yuuri over the edge. His knees go weak, his balls tighten, and a jagged cry escapes him—and he spills into Victor’s skin. Enough that it overflows and forces them to separate… which means that now Yuuri can _see_.

He can see his own come, pooled inside Victor’s foreskin, dripping out onto the floor. Another shockwave pulses through him as he takes it in—and that’s when Victor grabs his shoulders and pulls him close again. Yuuri kisses Victor fiercely, riding out the last of his orgasm with his teeth clamped firmly on Victor’s bottom lip.

Once Yuuri has recovered, he makes good on his promise to finish what he started. Victor comes with Yuuri’s name on his tongue and Yuuri’s hair in his fist—and Yuuri swallows it all.

Victor hitches his sweatpants back up and sinks back into his chair; Yuuri hitches up his shorts and gets a bunch of paper towels to mop up the mess on the floor. A shower. He should shower. They both should. Yuuri’s already showered once this morning, but now he smells like sex and he feels like…

“Your shorts are dirty,” Victor says.

Yuuri looks down. Oh, yes. He feels like a person whose sleep shorts are streaked with come.

Victor grins. “I’ll get you something clean.” And before Yuuri can protest that he can do it himself, Victor slips into the bedroom. Then he slips back out again, a pair of practice pants clutched in his fist. He holds the bundle of fabric out to Yuuri.

Yuuri takes the pants. Looks at them. Then looks up at Victor.

“These are yours,” he says.

“Oh, look at that, they _are_ mine,” Victor says, not sounding at all surprised. “Should I get you something different?”

Wordlessly, Yuuri pushes his shorts and underwear down again, and then kicks them over to the side of the living room. He’ll pick them up later. For now, all he cares about is the way that Victor watches him as he pulls the practice pants up over his calves, over his thighs, over his ass. Between Victor’s eyes and the slide of fabric over his still-sensitive cock, he finds himself wondering how soon he’ll be able to get hard again.

Maybe the second shower can wait.

“They’re a little tight,” Yuuri observes, looking down at himself.

“Thank god,” says Victor, and moves in for another kiss.


End file.
